I had told myself I wouldn't give in. Not completely. Not yet.
But Kabir Malhotra has a way of turning every rule I've built into dust.
It was late. The streets of Mumbai were quiet except for the occasional taxi or streetlight flicker. I was in my apartment, the smell of turpentine and smoke lingering, painting the room in shades of my restless mood.
Then he was there. Naturally, silently, as if he had always belonged.
"Kabir," I said, voice low. Calm. Poker face firmly in place.
"You okay?" he asked softly, stepping closer. His presence was dangerous, heat radiating even before he touched me.
"I'm fine," I said, but even as I said it, I felt my chest tighten.
"You're not," he whispered.
Before I could argue, he was close enough that our breaths mingled. His eyes locked onto mine, soft but piercing, daring me to resist.
I wanted to resist. I should have resisted. But desire is not reasoned, and Kabir knows exactly how to make me forget everything else.
He leaned forward slowly. His lips brushed mine—not demanding, not greedy, just soft at first. A tease. A test.
My hands went to his shoulders. Tentative. Hesitant. Testing boundaries I had long thought untouchable.
"You don't have to say anything," he murmured, pressing a little closer, warmth radiating through his body.
I exhaled slowly, my chest rising and falling unevenly. The wall I had built around my heart—the control I had clung to for so long—started to crumble.
His hands traced the lines of my chest, just enough to make my pulse spike, just enough to make my knees go weak. The faint brush of his fingers against my skin sent electricity through me.
I closed my eyes. Let the moment take over. Let the heat build.
He kissed me again, deeper this time, and my hands moved, following instinct. Across his back. To his neck. To the edge of his shirt. I felt him shiver beneath me.
"Arjun," he whispered, low, deliberate. "Let yourself feel it. Let yourself want me."
I wanted to argue. To remind myself of Riya. Of rules. Of walls. But my body betrayed me. My pulse raced. My lips pressed fully against his. I let myself surrender.
We moved together slowly, hesitating at first, savoring the heat, the closeness, the intimacy. Each touch, each brush of skin, stoked a fire I had refused to acknowledge for years.
His hands roamed carefully, deliberately, as if he were reading my reactions, memorizing them. And I… I let him. I let him explore the parts of me I had always kept hidden his hands slid down my boxers and I could feel his tongue in my throat and all I wanted to do then was let him have and do whatever he wants with me.
When we finally pulled back for air, our foreheads rested together. Breathless. Heated.
"You're mine," he whispered.
I laughed softly. Shaky. "We'll see about that."
Even as I said it, I knew the truth. I was already his.
And the dangerous, thrilling part? I didn't care anymore.